Уильям Макгиверн: Odds Against Tomorrow

“Sambo!” he cried desperately, lurching along the short hallway. Something gave in his leg and he went down to his knees, the living room blurring and fading before his eyes. “God,” he said, wondering if he had been hit bad.

The old man had rolled off his bed and was lying huddled furtively within his heap of filthy blankets.

But Ingram was all right, he saw; Sambo was up on one elbow staring at him with big, white eyes. Sambo didn’t look too good, Earl decided; probably just scared. Thought I’d run out on him...

“It’s okay, Sambo,” he said, putting his hand against the pain in his stomach. “I’ll get you out. Nothing’s going to—” Earl shook his head, wondering why he couldn’t breathe; there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room.

“Don’t try to talk,” Ingram said in a soft, whimpering voice. “You’re hurt bad.” He worked himself up to a sitting position. “Lie down, Earl, lie down.”

“I’m fine, Sambo.” Earl tried to smile but his lips were too stiff and cold. “I came back for you. You knew I would, didn’t you?” Earl swallowed something warm and thick in his throat. He said pleadingly, “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Sure, I knew it, Earl.” Ingram began to weep helplessly. “I knew it all along. Lie down — please.”

“I shouldn’t have left... We’re in the same outfit. Got to help—” Earl shook his head again, fighting stubbornly against a terrible weakness. “Got to get going, Sambo,” he managed to say. Then he put his hand out in front of him and sprawled forward on his face.

“God!” Ingram moaned softly. “Oh God, Earl.”

“Don’t worry—” Earl raised his head from the floor and stared at Ingram. “Sambo—” He saw the tears streaming from Ingram’s eyes and a lonely sadness welled up in his breast. “I didn’t make it,” he said weakly. “Didn’t get back. Not all the way.”

“You did fine,” Ingram cried. He worked himself along the couch, and then reached down and squeezed Earl’s hand tightly. “Nobody else could have done better, nobody in the whole world.”

“Some things I could do okay,” Earl said, resting his cheek on the cold floor. He gripped Ingram’s hand. “We never made that ball game, Sambo. Never made it.”

“Who needs a goddam ball game,” Ingram said in a savage voice. “We got enough, man.”

Earl heard the words, but he couldn’t answer them; the light in the room was turning dark, and finally it was gone altogether. There was no white or black then, nothing but a weary kind of peace, and that was the last thing he knew before he died...

Ingram stared hopelessly at Earl’s glazing eyes, not feeling the sobs that shook his body, not feeling anything but a sense of lonely, irretrievable loss.

Voices sounded around him and the floor trembled under the tread of heavy boots. Hands took hold of him, roughly at first, then more gently as his body fell weakly against the sofa.

Someone said, “He looks about dead, too.”

Ingram heard another voice. “The woman’s not here. Send out an alert for her. She can’t be far away.”

The old man was talking shrilly to someone, and a little later Ingram heard a cackling outburst from Crazybone: “The colored boy had good manners, I tell you. Proper, he was. But the woman was a devil. Destructive and evil. Pop liked her, though. Always did like hussies. Used to say I was too ladylike. Expected too much fine treatment. Never dared lay a hand on me, he said. Afraid I’d—”

“All right, ma’am,” someone said quietly. “There’s nothing to worry about any more. Just sit still and rest.”

A state trooper in a blue drill uniform was staring curiously at Ingram’s tear-filled eyes. “What have you got to cry about?” he said. “You’re not hurt.”

“Never mind,” a voice cut in quietly. Ingram recognized the voice of the big sheriff in Crossroads. “Let him alone.” The authority in the sheriff’s voice was unmistakable, but so was the understanding; the trooper turned away with a shrug, and Ingram wept in peace.

Later he was taken outside on a stretcher. The rain had stopped but a sprinkling of water from the trees mingled with the blood and tears on his face. Far above him he saw a single star shining in the sky. Everything was dark but the star, he thought. In his mind there was a darkness made up of pain and fear and loneliness, but through it all the memory of Earl blazed with a brilliant radiance. Without one you couldn’t have the other, he realized slowly. Without the darkness there wouldn’t be any stars. It was worth it then. Whatever it cost, it was worth it...

The highway leading into Crossroads was a shining-wet ribbon under the headlights of the sheriff’s powerful car. Kelly sat beside him, smoking and thinking, a restless frown on his face.

Both men were grave; they didn’t understand what they had seen tonight but they were honest enough to respect it.

“He came back for him,” the sheriff said at last, articulating the thing they didn’t understand. “Ten seconds more and we’d have made our move. But we heard him coming and let him walk into our arms. It’s queer that he came back, isn’t it?”

“I bet a dollar with myself he wouldn’t,” Kelly said, shaking his head. “That’s how sure I was.”

They were silent for another mile or so, and then the sheriff dismissed the puzzle with a sigh. “We’ve got work ahead of us. But how about stopping at my place for coffee when we’re through? Nancy will be waiting up for us, I guess.”

“You’re sure it’s not too late? You sure she won’t mind?”

The sheriff wasn’t a man for winks or rib-nudgings. “I’m sure,” he said quietly.

“Well, good, then,” Kelly said. “Thanks.”

The sheriff touched the brake as they approached Main Street, slowing down as they swung into the peacefully sleeping village. Everything looked fine to his careful eyes; the street and sidewalks gleamed softly in the night, and only a stray cat prowled cautiously through the innocent shadows. Everything was fine. Everything, he thought.